


space truckin' round the stars

by EmSheshan



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Gen, One Shot, Outer Space, Prologue, Robots, Sci-Fi, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/pseuds/EmSheshan
Summary: "Well, Mr. Epstein, you gave me the arduous task of putting together a crew for a mission that's in less than a week with a budget of two pennies and a ball of lint. So apologizes if the prospective employees aren't to your standards, sir. You can't afford anyone else."---Brian Epstein worked in management under Commander Martin who just gave him a secretive mission. He somehow ends up with seven cunts on a cargo ship.
Relationships: Brian Epstein & Alistair Taylor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	space truckin' round the stars

**Author's Note:**

> So Idk if this will become a full-fledged story or not, I just really wanted to write some sci-fi.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"Shit," Brian hissed as he shuffled down the halls, just on the cusp of running but not entirely. He still had appearances to keep up, after all.

He slid his keycard through and shuffled into the elevator, having to type in his floor number three times due to his hand slipping off the screen with sweat. He hadn't felt this anxious in a long time. It wasn't every day your superior officer called you to his office.

Check yourself in the window. His hair was still neatly combed, only a few strands out of place but easily fixable. He adjusted his uniform and practiced making a calm, collected face at his reflection. The face that peered back looked like he was on the verge of tears. Sighing, he turned his attention away from the dark bags under his eyes and focused on the massive planet visible from the speeding elevator. 

The planet was named  _ Dynstar _ , but almost everyone he knew called it the Jade Paradise. It was lime-green, brilliant and bright, and the personal creation of the higher-ups. He had moved here five years ago with the help of his Commander. That man held Brian's entire future in the palm of his hand.

And right now, Brian was fifteen minutes late to his meeting with him.

The elevator dinged, and the doors silently  _ whooshed  _ open, having traversed hundreds of miles up in the span of a few moments. 

"Breathe in, breathe out," Brian said to himself. He strode down the hall, scanning each door. The higher the floor number, the more prominent of a position you had.

4051-A7...

4051-A8...

4051-A9.

The text on the door read in bright letters: COMMANDER G. MARTIN. There was no going back now.

Brian rapped on the door, and in mid-knock, it slid open, cold air hitting Brian's face.

He quickly shuffled into the office, which was more like a terrarium. There was a small lounge with a simple drink dispenser on a table, and several large planters filled with exotic species not found anywhere else in the galaxy. They were, after all, custom-created in laboratories. Same applied to Henry, the Emerald-coated bird in the large cage in the center of the office. Moving past the six-winged bird revealed the Commander in his uniform. He sat at his desk, stern face obscured by his hands interlaced together. He looked disappointed, which was his standard expression.

"My apologies for being late," Brian hastily said. 

"I should have anticipated this happening. Please, have a seat," Martin said in a weary voice, gesturing towards the lavish chair across from his desk. "And please, don't be so uptight. You're not going to be fired."

Brian felt embarrassed at how loud his sigh of relief was.

"Apologizes, sir, I am so grateful—"

"Epstein," Martin interrupted, "please sit down."

"Right, of course," Brian muttered, practically stumbling into the chair. The back of his neck was terribly itchy.

"Now then, since you ran later than I expected, I'm going to get straight to the heart of the matter. Do you remember one of my officers, Emerick?"

"Yes, sir," came Brian's rehearsed reply.

"Good. I recently sent him on a mission to Dark Sector Epsilon. Yesterday, I received a message from him requesting back-up. What I need is an intelligent and resourceful leader to put together a crew and assist Emerick," Martin explained. "Can I count on you, Epstein?"

"Of course! I know several candidates who would be excellent leaders for this mission—"

"No, you misunderstand," Martin said. "I want  _ you  _ to lead the rescue."

"Me? But I..."

"You're a pragmatist. You know how to get the most worth out of anything. You're a hard-worker, driven, and able to delegate well."

"Apologizes, sir, but I work in management. I've never left the system, let alone go into a Dark Sector!"

"You've always said you wanted to travel," Martin hummed. "And besides, if you do well here, you'd easily get a promotion. No more mindless bureaucracy; you'd be in charge of organizing and exciting high-profile excursions," Martin explained. "All you have to do is this one simple rescue, no questions asked. Can I count on you?"

Brian had to fight the urge to scratch his nose and wipe the sweat off of his forehead. Why couldn't he shake the feeling like his next words were a mistake?

"Well, sir, it'd be good to get out of the office," Brian chuckled. "I gladly accept this mission—"

"Great. I've already sent you the dossier," Martin said. "Your ship is scheduled to launch in a week, and I've already sent you a small sum of money. Hire a crew, supply the ship, and complete the mission. Understand?"

"Yes, sir! I won't let you down!" Brian said, causing Martin to give a rare smile.

"Best of luck to you, Captain Epstein."

* * *

"So then what happened?"

"Well, I screamed in the hall and immediately called you," Brian explained to his associate. They were in his office, more of a closet, with bulky pipes and valves making up the walls. It didn't bother Brian, however. After all, he wouldn't see this place for a while.

His assistant, Alistair, coughed and straightened out his glasses. Brian didn't know why Al wouldn't just get corrective surgery for his eyesight, but the man always had an obsession over old-Earth culture.

"Brian, if I may, I think you've made a terrible decision in your haste to please your higher-ups."

"I don't think so," Brian hummed. "I think this is a golden opportunity for us. No more boiler room closets, or anything. He called  _ me  _ personally. I have to do this."

Alistair sighed. "I know you do, which is why I gathered up a list of suitable crew-members."  _ God knows if I don't help you with this, you'll die,  _ Alistair thought to himself. 

"Thank you," Brian said. "I don't know where I'd be without your help."

"Most likely in your parents' basement," Alistair said, and before Brian could react, pulled out a small stack of folders. "These are the only suitable candidates I could find."

Brian stared at the files sitting on the partially rusted metal desk. It was remarkably  _ small,  _ which was an oddity for his assistant.

"Well, let's go through them then," Brian hummed. He began with the first file.

_ PHIL SPECTOR _

_ SEX: M _

_ AGE: 41 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: CONVICTED OF SEVERAL MURDERS—  _

"Absolutely not," he hissed, throwing the folder to the side. "Your sense of humor never fails to catch me off-guard," he said to Alistair.

"That wasn't intended to be a joke," he muttered, but Brian was already looking at the next file.

_ GEORGE HARRISON _

_ SEX: M _

_ AGE: 21 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: WORKED AS A TECHNICIAN ON SODUS-12, SODUS-13, AND SODUS-18. HAS EXPERIENCE OPERATING IONIC ENGINES AND MACHINERY. _

"Oh, well, this one seems promising."

_ PERSONAL NOTES: George has been born and raised working in the mines of the salt moons. His work is admittedly shoddy, but he has a fundamental understanding of how ionic engines function. He left home and is now in desperate need of a job. He does not want to be defined as a salt-miner for the rest of his life but is willing to come on-board. _

Brian flipped the page, and the paper accidentally slipped and sliced his fingertip. Curse Al and his old-world addiction. Why couldn't he just send these over digitally like every other 36th-century man?

"Where's the rest of the file?" he asked. "There's only one page!"

Alistair merely glared at Brian. Dumb question. 

Well, this George seemed like a slacker. Definitely not. Next!

_ MAL EVANS  _

_ SEX: M _

_ AGE: 28 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: WORKED AS A BOUNCER IN A LOCAL CLUB. ACTS AS AN APPRENTICE TO A SHIP-BUILDER. _

_ PERSONAL NOTES: Mal stands around nine to ten feet, and has the weight and muscle to match. He has never left the planet but has a good baseline on the function of ships. He is a pacifist at heart but can easily crush a human skull with his grip. _

Brian furrowed his brow. A knot had begun to form in his gut.

_ NEIL ASPINALL _

_ SEX: NONE _

_ AGE: 7 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: WAS GIFTED TO MAL WHEN HE WAS 20 AND WORKED AS A SERVANT TO HIM. HAS EXTENSIVE MEDICAL AND TECHNICAL KNOWLEDGE. RECEIVED AN INJURY TO HIS CEREBRAL CORTEX LAST YEAR. _

_ PERSONAL NOTES: Neil's encyclopedic knowledge had many applications, as does his ability to work without tire. He has numerous delusions, including his fantastical romance with a woman named Mona, but Mal reassures me that it doesn't affect his performance in any way. Does not take kindly to the insinuation that he is a robot. _

"Okay, is this a joke? What's the deal with this Neil guy?"

"He's a robot," Alistair answered, taking a sip from his long-cold coffee. "But he thinks he's a human."

"Does he have artificial skin?"

"No, he's a talking vacuum cleaner."

Brian snorted. Time for the next file.

_ RICHARD STARKEY AKA "RINGO STARR" _

_ SEX: M _

_ AGE: 24 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: RESULT OF EXPERIMENTAL GENETIC ALTERATIONS TO CREATE A HUMAN IMMUNE TO THE EFFECTS OF RADIATION. SPENT THE MAJORITY OF HIS LIFE IN MEDICAL FACILITIES AS A CONSEQUENCE. _

_ PERSONAL NOTES: Richard, or Ringo as he prefers, is a somewhat lonely soul. The failed treatments he went through as a child stunted him in every way. He has a natural immunity to radiation, but his life spent in isolation had left him with little in the way of actual talents. He's convinced he will die at a young age. Tragic, but useful. _

"Ever the pragmatist," Brian hummed. He reached for the next, and oddly, final file.

_ JOHN LENNON _

_ SEX: M _

_ AGE: 23 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: ATTENDED PILOTING ACADEMY AND DROPPED OUT. NOW WORKS AS A FREELANCE ARTIST. _

_ PERSONAL NOTES: Cunt. _

"Okay, what is this?!" Brian yelled. "It just says 'Cunt' in this one!"

"Well, that's because John Lennon is a, and pardon my language, but a massive arsehole."

"Even so! There are only six files here, and none of these guys are qualified!  _ Al,  _ what is going on?!"

Alistair looked at the bottom of his coffee mug, seeing the bitter grounds collected there. 

"Well, Mr. Epstein, you gave me the arduous task of putting together a crew for a mission that's in less than a week with a budget of two pennies and a ball of lint. So apologizes if the prospective employees aren't to your standards, sir. You can't afford anyone else."

Brian stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. He hated it when Alistair dug into him like this because he knew the other man was  _ right. _

"Alright, well… I guess we'll hire them all, except the killer."

"Are you sure? That  _ killer  _ is an industry leader," Alistair said.

"Yes. I'm positive," Brian said. "The Commander probably thinks this mission can be done with a sub-par crew if he gave us this little money," he mused. "Right?"

"Commander Martin doesn't seem like the type to make simple oversights like that, no."

"Of course. Well, if he's that confident in me, I can't let him down. Contact the five men and tell them to arrange a meeting with me. I'll have to—" 

"Did you read the dossier the Commander sent you?"

"Of course! I've been doing extensive research on the Dark Sector ever since."

"The Commander specifically requested to keep the details of the mission under wraps. He doesn't want you to tell them about it in advance," Alistair said. "Surely that raises some red flags for you?"

Brian stuttered, getting up to stand and pace in the few square inches of space he had.

"The Commander is the reason I have this job," Brian said. "If not for him, I'd be infinitely worse off. It  _ is  _ suspicious, but I believe the precautions are for a good reason. I… understand if you don't want to come along—"

"Oh, please," Alistair interrupted. "Don't even bother with that self-deprecating request."

"...thanks, Al," Brian hummed. "You really are—"

Suddenly, he was interrupted by a quiet, yet firm knocking. Then, the handle slowly creaked as a face peered from behind it. Unlike the higher-ups, his door was analog and had to swing open instead of sliding out of the way.

"Excuse me, do you know where I can find a Mr. Brian Epstein?" the stranger called hesitantly.

Brian stopped lounging over his desk and quickly straightened out his suit.

"You're speaking to him now," Brian said. "How may I help you…?"

The newcomer crept into the office, obviously skittish. His eyes scanned the room, the visible clunky bolts sitting in the wall, the two desks crammed inside, the haphazard piles on papers on Brian's, and the bizarre collection of memorabilia on Alistair's.

"I… yes, I was wondering if the job was still open, the trip to the Dark Sector."

Brian and Alistair glanced at each other. This man, he was an augmented. Perfect genetics, an attractive feminine face, very tall, very fit, and well-built. His alabaster skin was striking against his pure ebony hair, which stood out against his stark white outfit. He looked high-class, no,  _ expensive.  _ Against the murky, greasy office, he looked nothing short of a God.

"Oh, let me clear that off for you," Brian said, pulling a large stack of papers and boxes off of the one extra chair they owned. He threw it all to the floor and pulled out the tiny stiff seat. "And might I ask what your name is?"

_ Click!  _ Alistair had already pulled out a pen and paper, ready to record the man's words.

"My name is James Paul McCartney, but I like to go by Paul," the man began.

"And how old are you?" Alistair quickly asked.

"Uh, twenty-two. I know I don't have a lot of experience with ships or missions or well, anything really, but I need this job," Paul said. "I'll work for free! I'll do anything you ask, I promise!"

"Why… why you want to get on this ship?" Brian asked. 

"I want to… I guess to prove I can do something. My father, he spent a lot of money to make me. I've never done anything on my own, y'know?" He let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "It's stupid, I know, but I..." he trailed, "I'm sorry, I'll go."

"No!" Brian shouted. "No, we can, I can easily squeeze you in. Same pay as the other crewmembers, same quarters, everything. Would you be alright with that?"

Paul looked down at his smooth hands and the long fingers that adorned them.

"I would, thank you, sir," Paul said.

"Welcome aboard," Brian said with a grin as he shook the young man's hand.

Alistair smirked as he finished his write-up.

_ JAMES PAUL MCCARTNEY _

_ SEX: M _

_ AGE: 22 _

_ PRIOR HISTORY: AUGMENTED HUMAN WORTH AT LEAST HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS. GENETICALLY ENHANCED BY HIS FATHER. _

_ PERSONAL NOTES: A fine young man, if a bit sheltered. But an augmented human is both mentally and physically extraordinary. We're lucky to get this one. _

* * *

The rest of the day, Brian was busy with preparations. He had stocked the ship full of ammo, rations, spare parts, fuel, energy, and then some. The Dark Sectors were not to be taken lightly, but as long as he had a cool head, they'd make it out okay. 

The Dark Sectors were named that way due to the fact that they were, well,  _ dark.  _ They were swamped with a type of particle, one you cannot see or touch. There were billions of them, but they were perfectly harmless. 

But they obscured waves and signals. A Dark Sector meant no radio, no sonar, no scanners, no help. Criminals and pirates stalked the Sectors for easy prey, and they were barely charted. 

Like most men, Brian was terrified, but he wasn't going to be deterred.

He sent consistent updates to his Commander, confident that Martin was testing him. Why else would the ship be so criminally underreported? Well, Brian knew it would be a challenge, but he didn't consider himself a coward nor plan to.

Brian found that he didn't need to get licensing or permission or clearance or anything. Martin had handled all of the details in that regard. It was all incredibly off-putting. Brian hadn't even seen the ship in person yet, hadn't met the crew, had no experience whatsoever— 

_ Calm down. You are the Captain. You must remain strong. _

He packed his bags and moved to the docking bay. The Commander had given him strict instructions about the departure. Two rules. Do not contact any of the crewmates about the specifics of the mission until they broke the atmosphere and depart in the dead of night. 

Brian did as told, and passed the message onto Alistair, who sent it to the crew.

And thus, at 22:31 Standard Earth Time, he met  _ them  _ for the first time.

Well, he heard them first, their vague muttering turning into distinctive chattering. 

_ "Oi, mate, if I shake you, will yeh season me fries?" _

_ "Aye. If yeh wanna choke on dandruff." _

They all seemed quiet, antsy. He couldn't stop the anxiety that consumed him even if he tried.

When Brian approached, he saw seven figures outside the ship, which was…  _ underwhelming,  _ to say the least. He had only seen pictures, but they didn't correctly demonstrate how tiny the frigate was. It was like comparing a shoddy toaster to a car.  _ This  _ wouldn't be able to make the trip, surely?

And the crew, he hadn't seen any of them in person except for Paul, who was distant from the others. He had on yet another all-white outfit, one that clashed with the others. Alistair was right outside the ship’s main entry, wearing a suit as he usually did. The other crewmembers, aside from Paul, wore very casual outfits. One man had on a worn military jacket with its sleeves ripped off. Another had on a filthy jumpsuit. 

"Well, if it isn't the man of the hour," military-man cooed.

"You're fifteen minutes late," Alistair hissed.

"17 minutes, 34.23 seconds later than the designated departure time," a robotic voice droned.

Brian flushed under the collar of his uniform. He felt sweaty all of a sudden, and it was because of fear. 

The crew scared him. Not because they were monstrous aliens or something foolish like that, but because they looked like a mess. The ship belonged more in a junkyard than a government docking bay. And he was running late, again.

First impressions are everything, and this one made Brian want to cry. 

But thankfully, he wasn't dumb enough to give up.

"Well, now! As you all know, I'm Br-  _ Captain _ Epstein," he began, scanning the faces before him. There was a big guy, colossal, taking up the entire bench. His subspecies had a name, but everyone called them Giants. Rough, leathery skin that looked more like rocks, rippling muscles. That had to be Mal Evans. 

Next to him was a small robot, easily an old generation machine, with clear evidence of repair work. He wore a dress shirt and pants, which almost made him look cute.

Then, there was a short man next to the bot. He was, well, Brian didn't want to say, but he was objectively ugly. His nose was too big, lips too swollen, eyes too sunken, and he had a plethora of swampy boils on his face. Had to have been Ringo, the radioactive wonder himself.

That left John and George, the cunt and the salt miner. One had a military vest, the other hand-me-down overalls. More strikingly was the fact that the overalls-man was tall and lanky, easily over seven feet, yet his frame was far from filled out.

Oh, and his skin was grey.

Brian didn't mean to stare, but the people of the salt moons were a rarity out here. He realized he's never actually met one before.

" 'M not gonna get on th'ship if yeh keep starin' like tha'," the grey man spat.

"Apologies, I just wanted to get a good look at everyone, George." When the grey man didn't respond negatively, Brian felt happy, confident he had gotten the name right. "Regardless, we don't have much time, so let's get on the ship, and I'll explain in there," Brian said, turning around and typing in a passcode at the main door. A lock clicked, and soon the doors hissed open. Paul walked ahead, eager to go— 

But no one else was.

"Before we get on," John sneered, "we need to talk about pay."

Brian looked at them in disbelief, Paul in confusion.

"We will discuss payment once on-board. I have contracts for you all."

"Why can't we get the money up front?" Mal asked.

"The temperature is precisely 79.8 degrees Fahrenheit. Humidity is at 63%. Chance of precipitation 10%. Wind is moving at 3 miles per hour East—"

"Quiet, Neil," Mal grumbled, holding the bot by the head.

"Listen! This is a secretive mission, so we had to break protocol on a lot of things. I can't pay you until the mission is completed, but I have no intention of scamming you. You can sue me over that if you'd like."

Everyone was glaring at him, John predatory, George apathetic, Ringo nervous, and Mal grimly.

"Well… I guess we can just shoot yeh and sell your coat," John muttered as he shuffled onto the ship, the rest following. It was funny to see George awkwardly bend over to fit under the doorway. It was stressful to watch Mal squeeze in, the entire ship tilting when he entered.

The entire situation was already a cluster-fuck, and they haven't even ignited the engines yet. 

"Well, I must say," Alistair began, "this is undoubtedly going to end in disaster. Let's make the most of it, shall we?"

Brian stared at his partner before giving a small, sad smile.

"Let's."


End file.
